


Primus

by Just_Another_Madman



Series: The Dyadian Trilogy [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Primus - Freeform, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Madman/pseuds/Just_Another_Madman
Summary: A traditionalist science fiction trilogy, set amongst the small planetary cluster of Primus, the desert world, Destaon, a planet of oceans and Troi, their moon.Primus is the beginning of the story of Tasa, a teen who became a Wastelander on the planet of the title.Generic book cover summary/quote:“All Wastelanders are guaranteed only four things. A weapon, a Saile, a Skeen, and a destiny. The rest is provided by the wasteland and time.”But what if a Wastelander hasn't had their destiny forged yet?





	1. The Night

The sky said it was approaching nightfall. It had been a long day of travel, and the two celestial bodies were resuming their nightly splendor as the desert gulped down the day’s heat to watch the show. Destaon, massive and magnificent with its beautiful oceans, was flaunting its robes of blue and white. The smaller of the two sisters, Troi, stood humbly with its grays and whites. As the sky shifted into reds and purples, Tasa pondered on what Primus would look like from the surfaces of those planets so far into the skyline. Tasa looked around at the boundless wastelands and mountains, and they figured that if Primus was to appear as anything, it would be a humble conglomeration of browns, yellows and oranges. They wondered that, if there were any people out there, would they see this land as homely? Or barren?

Such thoughts began to fester as Tasa dragged the hovering Cruiser up the steep cliffside and set up camp on the small plateau. The craft was manageable, as the engines kept it somewhat afloat even in the dark of night. It wasn’t large to begin with, but it was manageable to tow due to the machinations that allowed it to collapse; mast, sail, engine and all. As Tasa finished the climb, they dragged the vessel off to one side of the reasonably flat plateau and took out some supplies in order to make a fire.

The fire wasn’t really needed, given the Skeen that Tasa had received upon becoming a Wastelander. And, given recent events, it works just as the villagers said it would; form-fitting, bearing-accommodating, and protecting even from the harshest of heat. If anything, the heat made survival easier, given that every part of the kit that is the Skeen relied on the sun’s light. The water purifier and recyclers, the conditioning to make any journey tolerable, and the armor itself, with its cushions and plates that predicted impacts before they occur and react faster than Tasa ever could. Even the helmet, which had optics that provided Tasa with warnings and signals that would never be noticed otherwise, functioned off of the precious power of the merciless sun. Still without decoration, emblem, or adornment, the gray and almost inhuman looking Skeen stayed on at all times. _As a second skin,_ as the phrase goes. 

Tasa inspected the Skeen, still admiring the intricacies of the durable, full-body armor. At the level closest to the skin, there was a slick material that trapped water. There was some circuitry between that layer and the one above it, the tightly knit fabric that worked to help insulate from the weather. Above that was the first layer of metal; small but well compacted plates that functioned to help protect the more vulnerable areas on the body that the chestpiece, gauntlets, and pauldrons wouldn’t cover. Above that were durable scales that helped to both power and defend the armor from various forms of assault. The chestpiece and helmet both had an additional layer of interwoven mechanisms, plates and scales to provide an adaptive shield of near-liquid metal to compensate for anything that might puncture through. It wasn’t a perfect defense, but it did its duty more reliably than a mere shield ever could. The greaves, also utilizing a similar construction to the chestplate for generic defenses, had a more tactile material on the soles, adapting to accommodate to the ground to always gain some traction on impact. The one-size-fits-all that the suit worked on functioned especially well around the waist, feet and boots to fit snugly without constriction or pain. It was as if one was wearing a comfy, fitted glove on each part of the body at any given time. 

Inspecting the armor and reminiscing upon the relatively short journey from the village, Tasa felt that it was a shame there was no destiny to embrace and anchor onto. A strange thing, to have no destiny. In some ways, it made even the more tragic of Wastelanders an enviable fate. At least they knew what was coming to them on their path through their life.

Tasa felt the fire was to be made, as it provided some comfort of the village that was now too far away in memory to remember clearly, as there were far too many details from the most recent legs of the journey to remember clearly at the moment. The winds seemed to agree, as they started to howl and whine alongside Tasa’s stomach. Luckily the fire was now prepared, and meat had already been caught. Tasa took a moment and removed the helmet, as it is wasn’t going to be worth the time and potential damage to the mechanisms to try to eat through the air filters. 

Tasa realized that a puny skink wasn’t the heartiest of meals after you took out the spines, barbs, claws, and the more pesky bones. This was as much due from a lack of meat as it was a lack of skill when it came to skinning and filleting the tiny serpentine corpses with the reliable Shaev that Tasa kept in their belt.

 _“An essential, by most standards. All the purpose that comes with having a sharp, serrated blade the length of a hand.”_ Tasa recalled the village forgemaster stating, with their hands being kept busy with the notation of uses. _“Skinning, cutting, severing, stabbing, hacking, slashing, cleaning, cooking, cocking, and, when pressed to it, knot replacement. Even the sharpest blade cannot make up for the lack of skill from its wielder, though.”_ The mental image of the jolly woman talking excitedly filled Tasa with a sense of comfort and pleasant familiarity that left a gentle smile on their face as Tasa’s attention returned to the meal at hand, and the usage of the Shaev. Currently, the use was cooking. _“One doesn’t roast meat with a blade if you plan on **using** it.” _ As the village cooks put it. Which seemed a little funny to Tasa, as the sharpness of the handy but weighty blade as well as the protection of the Skeen was expected to last well beyond a dozen lifetimes. 

Some seasonings were in the kit that was provided by the village, as well as a map and a copy of the journal that made the wasteland easier to live with. Tasa recalled the village chief stating that not all Wastelanders were given the same set of tools to live with. 

_“All Wastelanders are guaranteed only four things. A weapon, a Saile, a Skeen, and a destiny. The rest is provided by the wasteland and time.”_ Tasa chuckled to themselves at the last guarantee, finding it a funny notion to think that their destiny simply hadn’t been forged yet.

Any remaining reminiscent notions of wisdom were thrown out of Tasa’s mind as some nearby rocks from the cliff-face began to shout out their descent towards the base of the hill. Tasa skewered the rod with skink on it back into the compact rock, just near enough to the fire to keep it warm. Grabbing the Shaev and throwing on the helmet with as much speed as they could muster, Tasa prepared for information to assist with an ambush from some creature, some predator, some monstrous being that was about to lunge from the darkness having lost the element of surprise.

“Greetings, Wastelander. I don’t intend to harm you.” Said a voice from just below the cliff-face as they climbed up onto the small plateau, hands being raised when they weren’t being used for balance. They were also wearing a Skeen, and _could_ be attacked, but Tasa felt it would be far too dangerous to approach for an attack. A simple, probable mistake and Tasa would be the one thrown down the bluffs. It would be better to try to get along than to have one of the two Wastelanders perform rites for the other in the dead of night. And, if it came to it, Tasa trusted the Shaev to give themself an advantage in a fight on level ground more than the physical form which, unfortunately, hadn’t even fully matured yet. 

The Skeen of the visitor was dusty, as expected given their fate, but the pearl white and glimmering red and gold decoration of the armor shined through. The helmet was intimidating in its mold, as if peering at the area with a mechanical, all-encompassing gaze, leaving Tasa’s instincts on edge. As if a predator or perhaps even one of the legendary machines from long ago was eyeing them with a calm, predatory gaze. The decoration of the stranger’s Skeen was akin to a sash of crimson, with bands of gold on the arms. At their hip, they had a utility belt that was similar to Tasa’s own aside from the two completely different items that Tasa assumed were either very powerful tools for survival or simple knickknacks. One was a horn of some sort, while the other looked like an ancient relic that looked oddly compact; as if it would unfold many times before revealing its true form. It was barely the size of the Shaev in its current state. Tasa wondered what form the weapon would have to take to assist in hunting and combat. Perhaps it could transform between a ranged weapon and a close quarters blade or staff. As the visitor finished coming into view, they spoke again.

“ **Who** are you _wearing_?” 

The sudden, serious question mentally and physically stunned Tasa, as that wasn’t something that was ever asked at the village, and for good reason. The hesitancy and question showed, it seemed, as the stranger gestured to Tasa’s whole visage and clarified.

“You know, the Skeen you’re wearing. Whose is it? I don’t recognize it, and I’ve seen every depiction of us Wastelanders that has been recorded in the Annals.” They took a few steps closer before gesturing to themselves with one hand and continuing. “No decorations, no marks, no gestures, no scars or stitches on your Skeen to say you’ve ever seen any combat. So who are you?”

Tasa paused, shocked at the question. Who else could they be? The only other Wastelander that had been in contact for any duration was Jerochi, and they went their separate ways after the bandit attack. 

“I’m not wearing anyone, as far as I’m aware.” Answered Tasa. “It’s the Skeen I was given at the village before I departed.”  
“Departed? You weren’t exiled?” the stranger asked incredulously. “Well, explains the colors. Or, lack of one, I suppose.” They noted. “You don’t seem dangerous or overly plotting as far as I can tell, though.” The stranger put their hand to their face, as if to indicate considering something. 

After a brief moment, the stranger asked “Mind if I dine with you?” 

Tasa stumbled a reply, “Uh, yes, please, it’d be better to have company than go without.”

The stranger gave a quarter-bow, and stated they’d be back in a moment. Tasa spent the brief moment to relax and began to reflect on what just occurred and who it might be. What little figure that showed despite the Skeen indicated a male, which matched the gruff but excited voice in spite of the distortion from the helmet. The armor decorations indicated some notable figure, as did the weapon by their side, but the details of the Annals eluded Tasa. No shame in asking, if they’ve reached this far without attacking one another. 

The stranger had arrived once more, this time with their own Saile in tow. The size of it was matching of the Cruiser model, including Tasa’s own. It had a similar color scheme to the armor of the stranger, though the sail upon the mast had upon it decoration of a circular crown of some sort emblazoned upon the palm of a fisted gauntlet with wings of some sort flaring out from just behind the wrist up towards the clenched fingers. The stranger dragged the vessel to the opposite side of the fire before reclining upon it, facing towards Tasa. 

“Alright, so I did some thinking on the way down. Umm. Up? Up.” said the figure as they began to slowly and methodically take off their helmet, the action of which served to remind Tasa to do the same, as there were only a few traditions and courtesies between Wastelanders. It was considered an act of faith and security to remove ones helmet in the presence of another Wastelander. “And there’s only two options here. Either you’re Igo, the Imposter, or you’re new. And by new I mean you’re _fresh_ , somehow. As in your Skeen was made in a village. But that isn’t possible, so I…guess you were just an unused one?” 

They paused, extending only one of their arms out as if to cushion the blow of the words while the other arm finished taking off the helmet to reveal a more aged man beneath.  
“And, as tempting as it might be to assume you’re Igo and kill you where you’re seated, I figure it would be better to assume you’re NOT going to kill me with your dreaded sickle and chain, which you _clearly_ have on your belt.” The nervous sarcasm was dripping to the point where it nearly left a taste in Tasa’s mouth. 

“So, uh, I’m assuming you’re new, umm, if that wasn’t clear.” Said the stranger anxiously. “Uh, so, who _are_ you? I figure things work a little differently for you than the rest of us, since your destiny isn’t even recorded in the Annals yet as far as I’m aware. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Otherwise you wouldn’t be _new_ , you’d be…unusual? Different? Uh, well. I’m rambling aren’t I. Umm, just tell me who you are, Wastelander.” 

Tasa had long since finished taking off their helmet to mimic the polite gesture between Wastelanders, and answered the question. 

“Uh, I’m…Tasa. No real destiny or history behind it as far as I’m aware. These are just the Skeen, Shaev and Cruiser I was given by the village.”

“Right, right. Umm…did they at least give you a mentor, Tasa?” asked the stranger.

“Jerochi was my mentor until recently.” Answered Tasa, giving a small nod to accompany the statement. 

“Jerochi? That’s…the one that looks like the ancient foot soldiers. Armor that blended in with the ground, supposedly, and a spear or bow to help hunting, if I remember right? What was their Saile…it wasn’t a Cruiser, definitely wasn’t a Dreadnought…maybe a Skift? Pioneer?” the man pondered, looking at the illuminating night sky questioningly; as if the answer would be delivered to him in the form of a falling star. 

“It’s a Marauder, actually. Named after the spirit of the storm, though I wasn’t given the name of it during our… brief… time together.” noted Tasa.

“Marauder, huh? Those are the ones that don’t fly very high, if I remember right. They’re the more durable ones that tend to like…crosswinds? Straight lines for their paths, definitely. Something about monster hunting in their history. It’s a bit late to remember everything. But named after a Storm? Uh, that’s… probably… Kalomo, if I remember right. Really old name, only really used by the monks of the Iron Path, way to the…” he left on a pause, trailing with one hand far into the horizon as he reached for one of his own skewers with his other hand. “Well, directions are pointless and wordy if you know where to go, after all. I don’t feel like pulling out my map and star chart at the moment, since my stomach is a bit busy reminding me it exists. But, I’ll leave you directions in the morning if you’re interested.” He seemed satisfied with that as his stopping point, and gleefully took out his own store of meat and surprisingly well stocked spices, reclining his back up to the side of his Cruiser before placing the storage case on his lap. He seemed preoccupied, and uneasy in some way, given the frantic pumping of his seated leg which he seemed to not even notice.

Tasa let him skewer his own flank of meat, before asking the man a question in return.

“Who are _you_ ‘wearing’?” 

The man looked befuddled for a moment, and his leg halted entirely, holding his skewer and dried meat steadily as his eyes continued to loom over his trove of spices, before a chuckle burst forth, breaking his momentary trance. 

“Ah, apologies, I’ve been a bit rude, haven’t I? I’m wearing ‘Gabriel’.” He said before he resumed pilfering through his extensive stores for a particular breed of salt.  
The name struck a memory in Tasa, who laughed for a brief moment. It made sense, now that that was clarified. Not many Wastelanders have such a rich history. Tasa looked at Gabriel once more, noting the countless stitches that had merged and overlapped over the generations to create folds that embroidered the fabric from the collar to the chin of the Skeen from all the predecessors and their respective but mutual destinies. Each Gabriel was to give judgement to the previous ones. It was a ritual, in some ways. Each one ceremoniously cut the throat of the predecessor after learning all they could about their path and what was accomplished by their predecessors. There was also an intimidating level of deep scars, dents and chips in the metal plates of the arms and legs from all of the combat with other Wastelanders that each Gabriel had seen and judged over the countless generations. 

“What’s your line? I read it once before but I can’t quite remember.” Asked Tasa curiosuly.

Gabriel paused once more, focus having been broken, and chuckled, smiling widely before taking a moment to sober himself as he put on a mock tone of severity. He looked to the floor, just off of the fire, and focused for a second before replying by jokingly pulling out his weapon, pointing it at Tasa and stating “Judge, Jury, and Executioner.” He smiled, having satisfactorily delivered his performance, tucking his inactive weapon back into its holster.

Tasa snickered back before asking him “What even is a Jury, anyways?”

Gabriel’s smile continued to emblazon his face, and he shook his head. “Tell you the truth; I don’t even know. And, according to the best records I had or can get my hands on, nobody here on Primus knows, either. Just one of those things that were lost to the ages.” His voice shifted to a solemn tone that was rising in frustration as he continued.  
“I’ve spoken with the Monks of the Iron Path, I’ve stayed with the Dragons of Ollen’s Pass, even the demons of The Great Chasm. Not a single being on or in this ground knows what it means. Even the previous Gabriel didn’t know what it was.” He paused, realizing he was getting passionate and venting his frustration during his ranting. He took his skewered meat off the fire, having cooked it well enough to eat. He took a bite, and smiled again before filling his maw with mouthfuls of meat. 

“Maybe the Bluefolk know.” He said with eyes and a tone that betrayed his mirth. He made an effort to avoid laughing through his mood. It was painfully clear that he didn’t get pleasant or peaceful company often. Tasa smiled back before looking to the sky once more. 

“That was a joke back at the oasis.” Noted Tasa.

“Yeah? What village did you come from?” Gabriel asked curiously. 

“Altra.” Tasa answered. 

“Ah, third oasis. Nice place.” He said.

“By the way, while we’re both still awake, I ought to tell you about something.” He continued. “Not really sure where you’re going, and it’s none of my business to know, but if you go towards the Monks of the Iron Path from here, through the Wurm’s Basin, avoid the Wastelander in there. Enkidu is wandering about, being as vicious a beast as, well, as bad as the sandwurms, I suppose. In some ways, he’s been worse. He’s raided a few traders and merchants that were wandering through on the path.” 

He finished his meal, and scraped the skewer clean of meat and fat with his metal-tipped gloves. He then pointed at Tasa, emphatically. “So, if you see the crimson sails or a hulking figure with wyrm sized or shaped bones decorating their armor, get out as fast as you can, even if you have to turn around.” 

“I’ll try.” Said Tasa.

“All I can ask of you.” Replied Gabriel before he wordlessly donned his helmet, grabbed a cushion, and placed the cushion beneath his helmeted head before resting for the night. Tasa found it strange, since he shouldn’t need a cushion in order to sleep comfortably. But, every person must have their odd comforts, Tasa figured. 

_A fire for me, a cushion for him. We can’t feel it, with our Skeen over us, but it still gives us some comfort. And such a thing is a treasure, out here._

Tasa decided to stay and watch the stars for a while longer, basking in the fire’s warmth and the natural light of the cosmos before deciding to rest for the night as well. The Monks of the Iron Path seemed to be a good goal for however long it took to get there. Donning the helmet, Tasa put out the fire and laid down to sleep, thinking about what the monks and the monastery might have to offer.


	2. The Trek and the Basin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tasa makes it to the basin before the while watching and thinking of the local wildlife

Primus, Chapter 2: A New Dawn

The light of the dawn illuminated the raw, windswept face of the crimson crags that made up the upper plateau. There were faded wisps of colored dust flowing up from the rock-face in the form of a trail into the opaque, muddled mess of the varied bands, stripes, spirals and swirls that composed the complex painting of the sky above. It was from this awe-inspiring sight that Tasa lowered their gaze, back to the plateau, where they saw Gabriel leaning against his cruiser with his helmet in his hands, eyes closed, with his aged face seeming to be blissfully meditative. 

“Morning.” He said, without budging an inch nor opening an eye. “Or, not quite.” He clarified. “Not quite dawn, actually. Don’t worry about me, just fulfilling a bad habit my mentor gave to me.”

He smiled, opening one eye just far enough for Tasa to notice before feigning a voice Tasa could only assume was that of Gabriel’s grisly-voiced caricature of his mentor, obviously mocking him. 

“There’s not a creature on this planet that travels before dawn, and, by the gods, neither will I!” He smiled wryly briefly before opening his other eye and peering over the wasteland with such grace that Tasa felt inclined to follow his gaze. 

The wasteland, vast, flat, and empty save for a smattering of denholes, hardy plantlife and spires similar to the one the two Wastelanders sat upon was gray from the moisture of the night before. The first sun, beginning its ascent over the horizon, shining through the debris of the atmosphere, began to open the dusty eyelid of the ground nearby. The two watched as the line traveled along the ground until it passed over their refuge. 

Gabriel winced, blinking rapidly under the sudden radiance of the day, and donned his helmet. Shaking his head, he stated “I can never get used to that. Wonder why.” Tasa moved their gaze back onto the creeping line of day over to the opposing horizon where the various hills, mountains and spires of the Iron Hills loomed. They thought to themselves that it would take a few days to get there, if they wanted to. Then again, there was a whole planet to explore, and a lifetime to delve it. There’s nothing to say that it had to be done immediately, of course. But Gabriel seemed to be heading in that direction, possibly to deal with Enkidu. It’d be a fierce battle, regardless of who won. Tasa began to wonder as to what the weapon on Gabriel’s hip was, and how he would fare against Enkidu, who Tasa had yet to witness. 

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything serious.” Said Gabriel as Tasa snapped to attention, realizing that they had focused on the mountain for far too long. “Here’s that map I said I’d give you. I’m heading out in a moment, you’re free to do as you please.” He said curtly before he turned away from Tasa. As he passed they saw his backside where embossed, golden wings sat as an untarnished portrait of intimate details that shone through the years of scarlet dust that had inevitably caked itself on the Skeen. 

Gabriel stood inside of the Cruiser before securing himself and, after pulling up a few tabs that helped secure the Saile’s pieces, tugged on a cord, and Tasa saw the vehicle spring to life. The first thing that popped out were two lengths of heavily adorned pipe that, despite their opposing polarizations within the structure of the vehicle, connected before interlocking to form the mast while the rapidly unfurling sail that had been stored in a compartment within rose above Gabriel’s head. The sail had a mixture of gray and black suited as the background, the shadows of the rock face complementing the scheme nicely due to the shadows granted on it for the time of day. Tasa noted once more the crimson, pearl and gold emblem upon it of a crown emblazoned upon the palm of a gauntlet, wings spreading forth from the wrists up towards the clenched fingers of the fist. A loud noise pealed out as a sidebar raised itself to connect with the mast comfortably at Gabriel’s mid-torso level. The compartments below, now secure and empty of the essential areas, collapsed and reformed the spare plates to form the aerodynamic chassis of the Saile. At the helm of it, a wedge with air ducts that filtered and provided additional reserve power for the devices within or anything that had been stored within. At the center, the main engine and turbine that kept the Saile afloat at higher heights or up slopes finished connecting itself and roared to life, lifting the craft a few feet. It was at this moment that Tasa noted he was left-handed, shortly before he looked over at them and giving a parting salute before flying off the plateau and into the desert basin below. Tasa noted he was heading towards the far off silver colored mountains. 

They took a moment, and gazed at the map they had received from Gabriel. The Iron Hills were a long way away, and the mark on the map indicating Enkidu’s current residence was a quite magnificent range of the valley along that way. They didn’t know if this was due to a vague uncertainty of his whereabouts or a notation of just how far he’d be willing to travel in order to pursue greater prey. Tasa put aside the map for a moment to take a drink from their flask, contemplating the decisions before themselves as they took off the helmet, once more not wanting to ruin the precious filters.

Ultimately, there was no rush to go to the Iron Hills, nor anywhere in particular. A lifetime of spare time, and so little to do or dedicate to. The Iron Hills were, however, home to some of the best warriors in this section of the desert, and it would be a far longer trek to go to any of the other oases in the desert. It would potentially take years to journey to the other deserts to visit the other tribes of people that supposedly exist. Only the gods know if they are truly there, if there are any gods left. The oases of home didn’t have any mystics still around, only scribes notating movement in the heavens and what little fare of changing weather there was. Scholars, really, but they prefer their title for the most part. 

Tasa looked at their hands and form and felt unsatisfied. Too small, too weak, too inexperienced. Partially from age, partially from the lack of position they held back in the village. Supposedly diet had to do with it, as well, and sleeping spaces. Not entirely their fault, but some did lie within their lap. Tasa pondered for a moment, wondering what sorts of training would await them were they to pursue Gabriel, who was now but a trail of dust stretching into the horizon towards the Iron Hills. Nothing forced them to proceed, but nothing motivated them to do anything less, either. With a lack of ideal options, it would be better to invest in skills to use in the future. At the very least, not having to worry about where to sleep on a daily basis would be a welcome relief. 

Tasa packed up their things, sticking all that was not a part of the armor into the appropriate compartments of the Saile, and, after putting on their helm, began undoing a few securements along the sides of the main compartment before pulling on a thick cord, and causing the Cruiser to come to life from its idle hover. Staying still on the marked positions with their feet, the procedure was much like Gabriel’s, with the first piece and marker of the Cruiser to be completed was the sail. The vehicle readied itself, forming to meet Tasa’s body with the crossbar that served as both the horizontal and vertical rudder. 

Controlling the vehicle was difficult, taxing over long periods of time. Sharp turns could only be done by only the most powerful or most clever, utilizing tricks and altering their Sailes to perform specific maneuvers with greater ease and prowess. Tasa hadn’t had the time nor opportunity to alter it and, in some respects, didn’t wish to. There was something special of having an iconically plain, default set of equipment. Nothing special, nothing gaudy or ostentatious about it. It worked, it was clean, and it was in good condition. Tasa said to themselves that if this is what was passed on of their legacy, however little of it there may be, it might not be such a bad thing. There was a particular splendidness in minimalism that can never quite be replicated authentically. 

The main engine kicked into drive, and the resting power of the vehicle was primed for action. Tasa braced themselves, placing their feet in the appropriately marked positions, and firmly but not lockedly gripped the sidebar that functioned as the rudder before placing pressure down on their front foot. The Cruiser jumped to a start, racing down the cliffside in a mere moment as Tasa leaned back in the vehicle, lifting the front of the sidebar upwards while dipping the back in order to gain elevation. Rising up to a notable 20 feet or so, Tasa continued to streak across the desert, wind screaming past the helmet, tugging heavily on the armor and body as it slid past, leaving what would be hours of foot travel across the desert behind in mere seconds. 

********************************************************************

Even at such a speed, it would still take a full day and night to reach the Iron Hills, Tasa noted. They pondered on it for a moment before resolving that it would be better to take a break on the outskirts of the basin instead of pushing onwards, but Enkidu’s territory seemed a tad too large on the map to be safe about such a decision. A decision would have to made, and quickly, as Tasa felt themselves becoming fatigued as the trip went onwards. 

In truth, the trek was getting to Tasa, as the bones and muscles within their arms continued to vibrate and steer the passage of the Cruiser. It seemed that it was not only from the speed, but the stress on the arms of having to maintain course as well. It was dangerous to let go at all; even just stretching while steering poses the extreme danger of not being able to respond quickly enough to avoid colliding with some stray vegetation, hidden boulder or beast lying in wait for the perfect moment to leap from their cover to snare any unfortunate prey. 

The area around here between the basin and the mainland was a bit of a deadzone for vegetation, as little water ran this far between the Hills and the Oases. Not to mention the extreme heat in this region in particular prevented the smaller predators from taking advantage of the location. Which left a few small creatures, such as the small, flightless birds of the Iron Hills that tended to wander the base of the hills to scavenge for seeds. There were the Lemmings, small rodents that fed on the rare, sparse grass in the pockets of desert that could hold water within actually sandy bases. The looseness of said minerals were due to the moles that live exclusively in such areas. While the smaller ecosystems were relatively peaceful, any of the smaller creatures attracted the few predators in the area. The overall docility was good for trade amongst villages, but the Iron Hills wanted little to do with the Oases that didn’t bother making the trek over to them. They had long since abandoned the responsibility of maintaining a route, and the more dangerous creatures were left alone in the territory. Due to this, the dangerous predators here were mostly limited to the Squalls, the Vulkor, and the Hulud. 

The Squalls were originally named something else, but earned the name for their tendency to immediately and fiercely take down the smaller of birds or Wastelanders that were unfortunate enough to not be able to dodge. They were larger brutes, about as tall as Tasa was at their shoulder, and about one and a half times their height in length. They were black scaled reptiles with horns, the bones naturally so dark that they were originally named after demons. Their preferred method of hunting was ambush, as it was common they would suddenly lunge or leap into the air in order to quickly snag and take down prey. They had lengthy horns, large claws, and specialized curved fangs that seemed to be used to lock onto prey and rend any flesh that tried to escape. The claws were used to gouge out organs quickly and efficiently, while the horns were mostly decoration, though the village elders believe that they compare length and girth of them amongst each other in an effort to find potential mates. Larger horns meant a larger body, while thicker ones were signs of veterans who had survived their horns being broken and reforged. The elders also noted that the color of the horns indicated status amongst the small prides they had; black horns were youngsters who were not even fully grown, while gray and yellow indicated young adults. While white was indicating an elder, the most feared color was crimson. The crimsons were rare breeds that only popped up once in a while within the stories of the village; always as the largest, most ferocious of the predators. They didn’t have the shaggy hair of their bretheren, and well-muscled in order to compensate on a reptile’s innate lack of endurance with pure, raw, overwhelming strength. These crimsons often went seeking for larger prey as sport, caring little for what challenged them. Even Wastelanders don’t want to approach them if they are rumored to be roaming nearby. They supposedly even take on the Vulkor when they get the opportunity, but none were reported to have been foolish enough to take on the Hulud. 

The Vulkor were the predators of the sky, swooping down to collect on prey. It mattered little to them if the mass they had selected as food was alive when they picked it up or not. For, as far as the villagers or perhaps even the bird itself were concerned, the prey was already dead. Unbelievably sharp talons, a beak capable of piercing even Wastelander armor, and massive wings of flamboyant colors swooping down from the sky have been known to take off the roofs of houses at the Oases and flying it back to their nests were common tales. The villagers were grateful that it stopped at that. While it would be easy for them to take children or even adults from the village, it seems they have a mutual respect for the people of the desert and only take off roofs for pranks or materials needed for their nests. The records of ancient shamans tell of rumors that they could understand people, and avoid them due to tales they shared amongst their own clutches and groups. They seem to remember the events of their times through generations; or perhaps they simply tell their young.

Tasa remembered rumors of people living alongside them in company after having gained favor through tribute. While Tasa didn’t quite believe it, they considered it possible nonetheless. The Vulkor remember everything, even the identities of particular Wastelanders and their Sailes. It wouldn’t be surprising to find that they remember villages and the good favor collected amongst them. Pondering more on the Wastelanders, Tasa remembered that there were a few that would be hunted by the Vulkar if the foolish Wastelander wandered into the wrong territory. A handful of those considered it a rite of passage to claim a skull of one of the birds. Or was it a coat of their plumage? The details eluded Tasa sometimes. Much like with what happened with Gabriel. Speaking of, it seemed Gabriel received the ire of the Hulud, off to the bank of the basin that Tasa could see. They were sure he would be fine, but the Hulud were interesting predators of their own for the desert, and they were in every region. 

Tasa could see the thick hides of the giant wurms from even this distance, where Gabriel was but a speck with a massive trail of dust that lead towards the sky. Tasa pondered of the beings, and thought more of what the warriors of the village told of the Hulud. They were massive predators, fiercely territorial. They possessed the thickest of hides, both inside and outside of the body, supposedly due to their diet of strong minerals and metals that they implement into their defenses. Due to this and their size they cared little for what entered their territory, but whatever it was that intruded would soon regret it. They usually lived far below ground, tunneling and mulching the dirt for what little nutrients and moisture there may be down there. When something shook the ground or moved too heavily, a nearby Hulud could take notice, and begin to rise out of the dirt to catch the creature unawares and attempt to swallow the unfortunate being whole. For the predators that manage to get away from the initial surprise, the Hulud would begin chasing the poor thing. Unfortunately for the creature, the Hulud perfected the art of herding one’s prey. It was common to see some poor Squall get chased down, boxed in by several of the massive beings only to see it be driven directly into the gullet of one of their bretheren. 

Tasa inhaled sharply as they were forced to turn outside the reach of a nasty boulder that had partially submerged itself in the dirt. They noted the sharp pain building up a crescendo in their arms, and realized they would have to stop sooner than expected. But with the Hulud off to the side following Gabriel, it was safer to go to the other side of the basin and camp there for a day. They figured they could always drive during the night, even if it did pose a minor difference. At least with the Hulud busy the only thing that was left to be worried about was the Vulkor and the Squalls. While Tasa doubted the Vulkor would attack them, the real worry was of the Squalls, which had none of the inhibitions of the vivid Vulkor. 

It took some time, but it was only midday when Tasa arrived at a suitable spot. Slowing down enough to safely get out and jog alongside the cruiser, they quickly began to secure the Saile for an idle position of hovering, quickly shoving the front of the vehicle towards the cliffside to avoid any chance of a predator being alerted to Tasa’s presence. Tasa stopped the vehicle by the cliff in a few moments and began to climb up the steep slope up towards a neat little cove in the rock face. Once at the top, Tasa stripped out of their Skeen and began the laborious effort of thoroughly stretching and massaging every muscle that they could find.

As they sat down, they noted that the ground still wasn’t at peak temperature, but that may be due to the partial shade over this section in the cliff. That mattered little, as this spot would warm up shortly. They looked over the cliff, and back onto the desert. To no surprise, Gabriel had successfully outmaneuvered the Hulud, and was continuing on to the Iron Hills. He would probably make it there by nightfall, as he knew the route and didn’t have to worry about oddly shaded boulders or the hidden dens of Squalls. It mattered little to Tasa, but still they felt a little disappointed that Gabriel didn’t want to wait for them. It would have been nice to be introduced to the people of the Iron Hills and maybe get a foothold of what went on there. 

Stretching and a quick rest took a short while, since it was better to be thorough about such things. It then took a few moments to slip back on the armor, as it was easier to take off than put on. Taking it off meant undoing a few fastenings and taking off the armor piece by piece, but putting it on took meticulous detail in steps that allowed the armor to fit itself properly and adapt to the movements of the body without the risk of pinching any skin as the armor moved and compensated for the current circumstances, no matter how dire they may be. Putting everything back to where it belonged, Tasa took the Saile back down the hill, pausing for a moment to look for Gabriel. He seemed too far to pinpoint at this point, but the remnants of his trail still lingered in the air far off in the horizon. Tasa began to drink from the bottle, and looked back over to their own trail. It was still there, vivid, but something caught Tasa’s eyes within the dust a ways off. Something was moving and approaching rapidly. 

Tasa put on their helmet after putting away the bottle, prepping the Saile for a takeoff. They looked back at the approaching shape, and noted that it would be there before the Saile was fully flight-ready. Tasa internally screamed to themselves out of panic, furiously shouting at themselves that it was unbelievable that they hadn’t noticed it sooner. The dust had yet to clear, and they began to pace. The Saile was still getting ready, and it would be dangerous to try and outpace the figure on an insecure Saile over any distance.  
Tasa looked down at their equipment, noting once more that aside from the armor, all they had to defend themselves was the Sheev on their belt. While it could do that job if it needed to, Tasa didn’t like the idea of having to fight anything in the relatively thin, immature frame of a body that they hadn’t had time to develop. They thought to themselves sardonically that they probably wouldn’t even have the strength to push through any real scales or gristle that a beast would provide. 

With the dust finally clearing, Tasa was able to make out the shape of a Saile. They wondered when Gabriel had come back around so far to get them before realizing that it wasn’t Gabriel’s elegant banner, or his pristine white, crimson and gold. The Saile had a banner of blue, black and softened brown, and the figure’s color pallet was tightly intertwined black and blue. Tasa began to tremble as they noted that the rider’s helm was tightly covered by a beast’s naturally crimson skull.


	3. Conflict on the Open Plains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deadly encounter with Enkidu.

Primus Chapter 3: Conflict in the Open Plains

The billows of dust surrounded the craft almost as an aura, racing forward into the light, leaving only the tips of the earthen Saile and the gleam of the vermillion skull over the helmet exposed. Its course was deadfast, focused intently on Tasa and their prone craft, swooping in like a Vulkor who had spotted some unfortunate prey. Closer and closer still it drove itself through the desert, closing in on the immobile victim of circumstance with no signs of slowing or hesitation. 

A hundred yards, and with mere seconds to decide what to do, Tasa looked over at their cruiser, which was still starting up. 

Sixty yards. No point in jumping on early, too risky and might get rammed anyways. It would be better to deal with dodging and waiting for a second pass, avoiding the path of the craft as much as possible. 

Twenty yards. Tasa began sprinting away from it, looking back to see when the proper time to dodge would show itself. Time slowed to a crawl. 

Fifteen meters, ten… five… NOW. 

Tasa dove and rolled off to the side, towards the mountain. The vehicle kept its course with reckless abandon as it showered the area in the thick, murky dust that the desert jokingly called its mist. But, still, an obscuring fog it was. Tasa felt nothing could be seen in this shower. 

A loud thud came from the cliffside, and rocks yelled news of their plummet. Tasa asked themselves if it was their craft of the attacker’s… and did they actually drive into the cliff intentionally? There should have been plenty of time to turn…perhaps something affected the vehicle’s ability to navigate? Loose rocks or material of some sort? It would explain why the driver was churning so much of the dirt into the air. But it seemed more than intentional as to why they had nearly run them down. 

The helmet made an alert, something was moving in the dust. Close, big, and fast. Tasa turned and guarded just in time to mitigate the damage something heavy connected, sending Tasa flying back a solid 5 meters onto their back. 

The thing rushed over, not pausing to consider the level of damage already inflicted. Tasa saw the silhouettes of the apparently massive being and their relatively gigantic weapon. The skull softly glowed in the dust, but Tasa was more concerned with what they were wielding. Massive blades, easily almost as large as Tasa was in full, and wielded with two hands. 

Tasa rolled, dodging an overhead slam that would have easily crippled if not outright killed a beast of the desert. They pulled out their Sheev, feeling terror begin to take them over. The dust began to settle, and the colors and intricacies of the enemy’s armor began to show.

They moved slowly, deliberately from their position, now no longer worried about losing the advantage of the ambush in the dust, and instead sizing up the assets that this new prey may have to offer as a combatant. They picked up their blade, and hoisted it upon their plated shoulders. The armor was scaled, almost as a bird’s plumage, with rows upon rows of interwoven pigments of aged red, tan, gray, and the blue of ancient copper. The armor itself was sparingly covered in the bones of various animals and game, including an intact spine and ribcage covering a good portion of the chest, and one could see that on their backside there was a cloak of Vulkor feathers that would help to disguise this apex predator. 

Their blade, more of a massive cleaver, was straight with a weighted point that could almost be a pick placed on the backside of the upper end of the blade. The blade, as well as the handle, had a crease of some sort along the center of it, especially on the backside. 

The reason for this was shown quickly as the stranger seemed to separate the blade into two, and pointed one of the half-blades at Tasa. 

“IGO!” came the voice, deep, grisly, but also hoarse, as if unused for a long time. “I SHALL MY REVENGE YOU! TIME TO PAY!” they continued. 

Tasa, terrified, realizing that they were completely outmatched, and that they had but a mere 10 paces between them and this predator, took to running towards the hill; hoping, at the very least, to buy some time. 

Up the slope they went, prancing and hopping with each step, simply wanting to claim distance. The predator continued to saunter after, taking their time. After all, what good is a Wastelander without their Cruiser? 

Tasa climbed, attempting to get a vantage point, when it dawned on them that they had just received the first marks upon their armor. While certainly it would normally be a moment of awe and intrigue for most, the time to focus on such implications wasn’t now. Up the hill for a pace, and then Tasa looked down to watch as Enkidu continued the slow, menacing approach. Gradually, slowly, deliberately; with every step Tasa felt themselves becoming cornered. 

Tasa turned to continue the climb, but as they placed pressure upon their rock, it came loose, causing Tasa to slip, crashing into the loose rock before rising rapidly and continuing to run. The impact of the rocks didn’t hurt, but Tasa was more worried about being chased down. Further up the hill, and onto the plateau Tasa went, with Enkidu still taking their time. 

Tasa felt they had a moment to think. Would it be better to ambush him? Hide and hope that he may give up? There weren’t many options, but no matter what, it was better to get out of sight so that any other decisions can’t easily be tracked. 

They around the plateau, finding it was a small alcove, with two walls of rock on either side of this passage, the main path leading into a cave. Tasa recognized it as something familiar, but didn’t think much on it. Instead, the steep slopes that lead to higher ground proved to be a better advantage for the situation. Moving over to a good spot, they climbed, ascending up the steep, sharp inclines, and onto the ridge, and into cover. 

Enkidu arrived on the plateau, and, after scanning briefly, moved in towards the cave, expecting their foe within. Tasa waited until he was out of sight and earshot, and began to move to the cliff below. There wasn’t any particular plan at this point, but they hoped that they Cruiser was still intact and ready, as this was a perfect opportunity to escape. 

Tasa stayed low to the ground, rolling their footsteps, moving quietly with some swiftness. They moved to the far edge of the slope, away from the pass, towards the slope that they came from, only to be greeted with a small but sheer drop onto the plateau below. It would hurt, but Tasa felt it would be worth it, especially if they could roll off the landing. 

They leaped, tucking their knees in a bit as they flew. The fall is always faster than expected, it seemed, but Tasa remembered how to roll to avoid damage and get back into a position to run. Legs to knees to elbows to shoulder, legs rotating as the movement followed through, ending with one leg down and the other perched. 

Tasa rose, and began to run down the slope, still unsure whether or not their craft was still functioning or if something had happened to it in the initial encounter. Thinking back on it, Tasa realized that they hadn’t stopped to look at their cruiser, or what had happened to Enkidu’s. The noise from before…was it the cliff crumbling? Did they simply drive it into the cliff without thinking? They must have incredible faith in the durability of their craft, otherwise something might have ha-

The thoughts were interrupted as Tasa slipped on the loose stones, causing them to tumble a few paces’ worth down the slope. Luckily the Skeen helped to dampen any blows that might cause some breakage into just bruises. It was fortunate to have the Skeen do even that, as most armor would still incur injuries, but some wounds were unavoidable. After all, no armor is immune to all forms of attacks. They laid there on the ground for a moment, rubbing the band of plating that rested just above where Enkidu had struck them but a few moments ago, managing to place enough pressure there to feel what had occurred. Bruises, nothing more. Something to live with, at least for now. 

As Tasa slowly began to rise from their prone position, rocks came tumbling down the slope from above. They looked, and managed to spot Enkidu racing down the slopes without care for stopping.

“IIIIIIIGOOOOOOOOOO” he bellowed, closing in on Tasa, who, rising, had struggled for a moment too long getting up. 

The first of the cleavers came in an upswing, spike jutting forth, flinging Tasa further prone from their rising position, a few feet from where they had lain just a moment ago. The second cleaver pierced the ground just above Tasa’s right shoulder at the moment that they had landed, the weight of the blade securing Tasa to the ground. As Tasa reached for the second cleaver, the first returned in a sweeping motion that knocked their arms aside. One of the heavy trunks of flesh that were Enkidu’s legs stretched and held Tasa’s arm as the first cleaver’s spike returned once more, matching its twin’s placement, pinning Tasa’s other arm. 

With both arms of his prey pinned, Enkidu sat upon Tasa’s thighs, completing the full pin. Confident that his meager prey had been caught, Enkidu’s fury seemed to abate, having been replaced with something else entirely. He slowly removed the crimson skull adorning his helmet, revealing that the helmet had a few holes in it from ages past. Tasa noted that such wounds would have been lethal, and for those that inherited the armor, the displays would be incomplete for nearby sections. 

Enkidu then removed his actual helm, traditionally slow paced. The face beneath was that of a relatively tanned male with pale eyes, with an inky-black beard that seemed to be content with being merely at the nape of his neck. His hair seemed to flow to the base of his torso, but the grime upon his skin indicated he had not bathed in many a moon. While not unusual for Wastelanders by rapport, the sight of it still shocked Tasa. 

Upon hearing the gasp, Enkidu refocused on his prey, and began to remove Tasa’s helmet. Tasa shook their head, and shouted loudly, hoping that the man still knew how to speak.

“I’M NOT IGO!”

Enkidu instinctively recoiled at the sudden noise, hands removing themselves from the helmet as if Tasa would be able to deliver a poisonous bite. He sat there, processing for a moment, before responding. 

“Igo?” he asked quizzically. He reached down to Tasa’s belt, pulling out their Sheev with only minor difficulty. He examined it, pulling, pressing, prying, and commanding it for any of the nonexistent hidden features that may come from a trickster’s weapon. Quickly satisfied that there was no additional harm, he still seemed suspicious. He wiped with his gloved hand at Tasa’s chestplate. He wiped a few times more, unsatisfied, before moving onto both of the shoulders, one after another. He repeated the process with the armbands. Then the helmet. Confounded, he seemed unable to grasp that Tasa was not Igo. Else, who would it be? He turned on Tasa’s legs, facing away from them. Tasa heard mutterings that were accompanied by some gesticulation of the arms as Enkidu attempted to wrap his head around the situation. Tasa didn’t want to assist him in the process for fear of causing offense. 

The sun shifted overhead, leaving only half of the day left when Enkidu turned around to face Tasa once more. 

“Not Igo. NOT. Igo. Hmm.” He seemed to be acting with hand motions, as if telling a story. “Hmm? Hmm. HMMM. Hmm. Not Igo, not villager. Wastelander. Dark? How.”

Barely managing to put together the meaning, Tasa managed to form a coherent sentence, having contemplated how to explain the situation while Enkidu was pondering. 

“New Wastelander. Young. Found new Skeen. Ruins. Given to me. Name Tasa.” They said, attempting to communicate in a way that matched the way he had spoken. 

“Tasa. Tasa. Ta-Sa.” He seemed to be savoring the name, wondering what it might mean as he looked to the sky for answers. After a moment, he realized the predicament of the person beneath him, and he pulled the cleavers off. 

“Not-Igo. New. Tasa. Where go?” he asked as he put his helmet and skull back upon his head, bundling his hair to fit in a comfortable fashion before moving off of their legs. He extended his hand to assist the new Wastelander. 

Tasa, simply thankful that nothing else followed, grasped onto the hand, and rose swiftly with Enkidu’s assistance. They noted that Enkidu’s cleavers were melded once more, and simply seemed to be attached to his back in some way. No cords, strings or straps. Tasa wondered how that could be for a brief moment before remembering that they had just been asked a question. 

They looked down at their belt, before realizing that Enkidu had dropped their blade at some point, reaching down for the Sheev and sticking it back into the holster. Tasa then turned to point at their destination.

“Iron Hills.” They said.

“Monks. Power?” asked Enkidu. Tasa felt that it was him noting that they had not grown yet, and needed physical training to be a contender worthy of holding the title of Wastelander before risking any encounters with more strangers. 

Tasa nodded in response.

“Mm. Power. Not-Igo. Power.” Igo gestured with a flex of his massive arms, as if to state that Tasa should reach such a point as well. He then pointed to the hills before continuing.

“Go. Fight. Power. Come. Fight. Power.” He stated, as if giving an order. Tasa took this as a challenge, to come back and see if they can contend with him then. Tasa doubted their chances, but only the future would tell. 

Enkidu started to walk down the slope, as if the encounter had simply not occurred at all, unworried if Tasa was actually Igo or even a threat at all. Tasa felt that might be fair. All they could do was run, after all, and even that they failed. They followed Enkidu down to their cruisers, which were still at the base of the slope. 

As they approached the solid ground of the wasteland, Tasa noted that their cruiser had deactivated itself, and rested on the ground. It seemed to take a little bit of damage, and a section was a bit scraped on one side. Nothing too terrible, and relatively light damage considering it was almost rammed. They looked over to see Enkidu’s cruiser had been buried by rubble of various sizes, including large boulders.

Tasa reached their cruiser in time to witness Enkidu begin the process of unearthing his own cruiser, the poor thing. He cared little, and seemed to throw the rocks with ease. Tasa started up their cruiser. They managed to complete the start cycle around the same time Enkidu freed his vehicle, and had started it up. 

Tasa gave a small parting hand gesture, thumb and two closest fingers extended skyward while the other two fingers remained closed. Enkidu caught sight of it, and repeated the gesture after a moment. Tasa noted one of his closed fingers were missing entirely. 

They both headed out shortly after, Tasa to the Iron Hills, Enkidu to seek some other unfortunate prey. Tasa thanked whatever gods there were that he simply hadn’t killed them outright. They wondered if they were lucky or if he has suspected it might be the case the whole time. It would be a grave mistake to assume he wasn’t intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. It would have been easy to kill them. But he chose not to. Tasa suspected that there was more to the situation than met the eye. When had he realized that they weren't a major threat? How quickly did he assess them? He HAD moved quite casually up until they had nearly escaped. Something about the encounter began to gnaw at Tasa. There was so much uncertainty, not only from the fight, but also that the cave was familiar for some odd reason. 

The wind swept over and past them as they raced across the desert once more, beginning to remember a bit about how the relics of the ancestors were discovered. The caves were tunnels leading various of depth into old chambers filled with metal and other valuable materials. Supposedly the Skeens all came from such places, and Tasa’s was no different. It’s rumored that one such cave would change the world, but Tasa doubted such rumors. Surely, after all this time, someone would have found such a cave? So much time had passed, it was unlikely no villager, Wastelander or scavenger had ever found it. Or perhaps they did, and simply didn’t care about what was in there. Or didn’t realize what it contained. Regardless, it wasn’t the current focus. 

Tasa began to concentrate on what lied in wait for them at the Iron Hills. It would be nightfall when they arrived, but that meant very little. What bothered Tasa was how they would be accepted. Would there be people waiting at the base of the Hills? Would Tasa simply have to ascend to the summit where they resided? Would they see such an action as hostile? Or expected? If they did end up accepting them, would they be allowed to use the Skeen, or would it be a place where they gave rags to newcomers and trained them naturally? Would they have training available for their Sheev? If not, where would or should they go to receive such training? So many uncertainties made Tasa uneasy. 

Tasa figured that, at worst, they would leave empty-handed and be told to go elsewhere. But where else was there to go? The other villages? Perhaps one of the few forge-towns that had started in the mainland of the grand-desert, over on the other side of these hills, past the wasteland. Or they could stay here. Train and live with any of the Wastelanders that would let them. Tasa was certain Enkidu could be convinced to train them in some degree, but probably not in the way they wanted.   
Tasa shook their head of thoughts, realizing that there was no point in worrying until the time had come. What Tasa was certain of was that not only would their luck would not last forever, but that the future would unfold, and only time would tell how.


End file.
